


Single Neck

by Br4v3b1rd (Les)



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Based more on Don't Starve rules then Don't Starve Together rules, Gen, Pre-Relationship but it's kinda shippy, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 14:03:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16577906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Les/pseuds/Br4v3b1rd
Summary: "If only the world had a single neck." A smart, morbid quip for the times he's holding a knapped flint razor, or something more?





	Single Neck

It’d originally been a morbid joke. At least, it must have been one. Why else would he say it, out loud, around the other survivors. Maybe a bitter admonition about the world. ‘If only the world had a single neck,’ he’d mused, a grim chuckle before passing back Wilson’s razor. He’d needed it for something. Couldn't remember now, he didn't care what it was originally. Today, it was a plan. 

Now, it was in his hands, the flint sharp and ready. He closed it, careful to avoid the sharpened blade. He’d snuck it out of Wilson’s bag.

Maxwell was tired, if he was being honest, and he almost never was. But… he reopened it, regarding the blade. It was well kept. It’d be simple. He’d thought about it before, long ago, how easy it’d be. Slice the neck, bleed out like a stuck pig. But, he was too much of a coward for either option, living or dying.

He’d ran.

What a mistake that had turned out to be.

The world did have a single neck. At least, his own world did. He could wander out into the wild, where they wouldn’t look, not that they would anyway. The only sign it was one of them would be the razor left behind. They wouldn’t be able to tell the skeleton from any other one that littered the island. It wasn’t like he had a life amulet on, or was keyed to any touchstone. And it’d be better to do it himself then let anything here ruin him. Even his own creations had tried.

But, the real villains behind the red curtain. They certainly wouldn’t let him meet a pleasurable end like that. It’d be another island, another world of Their making.

But… would being alone be that bad? He considered it. The stares. The other survivors, they played nice, well nice enough for people he’d drug here due to Them, which was fine. Understandable. But it didn’t mean he had to like it. That he had to enjoy the few scraps of kindness he’d get, like a begging dog, if only for the sake they survived better in a group. He’d swallowed down plenty of barbed comments, that was as nice as he’d let himself be to most of them. He couldn’t be soft, either.

Well, really, was there anything soft left in him? Was there anything good left in him? Probably not. 

But still, sadly, this truce he had with them… the most companionship in years. He hated how glad he was for it at times. Loneliness, again, might actually be better.

It’d be easy. He’d control it, that was something he did miss, being in control. There wasn’t much he could do away from the control of Them, but he’d enjoyed every chance he’d had for that.

Maybe soon. He didn’t have much emotion to the idea, but he felt numb at the idea of continuing ‘camp life’ either. He folded it safely.

He’d leaned on one of the many trees Woodie planted around camp only to chop down in a few days, but started to walk away from the silent camp as soon as he could, closing the razor, clutching it. A life line.

Everyone was busy with something, it was the reason he’d found the time to sneak back and steal the flint razor, thankfully.

Five steps, and he heard footsteps behind him, a hand grabbing his wrist. “Maxwell.” The tone is low, quiet, but serious. “Give me the razor.”

He turned, removing his arm from Wilson’s grip and spread his hands, revealing nothing, the razor quickly hidden during the turn, an old vanishing trick. “What razor, pal?” He smirks, the usual show already beginning as he lowered his hands to his sides.

“Don’t give me that.” Wilson’s eyes narrowed. “It’s up your sleeve. Or you’ve pocketed it, one of the two. I know you have it.” He frowns, instead of scowling at the other. “I’d like it back.”

There’s silence and Wilson stepped forward, reaching out, grabbing his wrist again. “I know, it’s tempting. But you won’t solve anything like that.” 

“What do you know, Higgsbury?” His voice is strangled, other hand protectively going for the pocket the razor was so quickly stashed in. Wilson’s grip didn’t let him leave.

“Enough. Give it back, Max. Please.” Wilson looked him in the eye, the only thing apparent on his face was concern. Odd.

The free hand slipped into the pocket and grasped it, slowly pulling out, an almost smooth gesture if it wasn’t for the fact he was shaking.

Wilson’s grip relented enough and Maxwell stepped back, razor clutched hard in his hands, everything in his head telling him to run, that it’s faked, much like everything else. Every other little bit of good or kindness in this damned hell-scape.

But Wilson was quicker. Razor pried from his shaking hand, thrown to the ground. “It’s okay.” The scientist said. “It gets to be too much, I know.”

He’s heard this tone before. Webber, a nightmare, Wickerbottom and Wilson on watch. He’d been unable to sleep and had just listened from his tent, unwilling to expose the insomnia that plagued him. Webber babbled something about hounds and their parents.

Wilson had used that voice to remind Webber that they were alright, that their parents weren’t here, that the hounds only existed here.

“You think you know what too much is, Wilson?” He managed, shaking even more. “I have…” He stops. There’s too much to say, too much that he can’t say. He can’t reveal anything, he can’t let himself be regarded as anything but what he shows. There is too much he has hidden away. Too much that buries him every time he dwells too long on it, and he's almost always dwelling on things. 

Arms have steadied him, a firm embrace. There really isn’t much either of them could have said, Wilson’s steady inhale, exhale pattern at least bringing something calm to the chaos in his head.

He leaned in and closed his eyes. He's been so tired, for so long.

The urge was still strong, to run, to grab the razor in the grass and run as far away as he can, to control this one little aspect he can.

But, right then, in a surprisingly warm embrace, he was too tired to try.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is still pretty dear to me, even though it's been a while since I've written it. Anyway, a few things are being held back until I finish their second part or if they're part of a series but, I'll try to get a few more of these up. Brovitranduila drew a wonderful pair of illustrations of this fic for me at http://brovitranduila.tumblr.com/post/152041188857/some-illustrations-for-an-touching-fic-single


End file.
